This Tedious Human Minute (from the Finnish)
Say you have, for instance, a costly tiara in one hand and a heinous sylvan death mask in the other; you're wearing your euphemistic helmet and ravishing suit, you're soaked in the blood of your enemies and gooned on fistfuls of painkillers, and you're telling your Samoan jokes to a ton of tipsy middlemen in their lousy seats a mile from the main stage; your microphone teeters and there's a sound like broken toys playing on a tape somewhere, and FM radio squeals a rock opera, and in this tedious human minute a stain spreads out from your feet, an oily, pale, unseen void without humility, a really vast, humongous, jury-rigged moon to set you on fire; you screech that it is the death of the millennium, the mother of all sins, on this site of pious madness, this aching capitalist rhyming new rock symphony; you're laughing and joking but the tofu cossacks are saluting your killers and their underlings, and the nameless oval is tapping out a tune in your name, a sinister death opus, your personalized inhuman elemental throat pulse, culminating in the turbulent hive that rakes your ego in an eponymous aria of polyvocal helljets; you are variously opened, shot from a cannon, posited to be, honestly, not; and you are not.
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